Live to Fly Another Day

by Eliza Watson

  A tear trailed down his cheek, and he slipped my unopened letter from his jacket pocket. “Couldn’t bring myself to read it. Was afraid you’d put me in my place, as you should have. However, I couldn’t bear to face the disappointment your family must have in me right now.”

  “If we’d known the event was going to upset you so much, we never would have planned it. Thomas seriously believed it would give you closure. It’d made him feel better.”

  “Thomas has always been like a brother to me. I cannot believe how I treated him. I am overwhelmed at what lengths everyone went to assist me, and I owe you an explanation.” He took a deep breath and eased it out. “My first thought when you mentioned the event was that the cold case would be solved and the truth would be known. I panicked, and pushing everyone away seemed like the best thing to do.”

  The truth?

  “Well, the truth is, there is no case to solve. I know who stole the artwork. I’ve known for eight years. Suppose I always suspected it but couldn’t bring myself to confirm it. I didn’t know until Diana left me that…she’d orchestrated the entire theft. When I asked her to please stay, she confessed. Guess she felt I would let her leave once I learned the truth.”

  I slipped my hand around George’s and gave it a comforting squeeze, my eyes watering. “Oh, George, I’m so sorry.”

  “I was a fool to ever marry her, and she played me for the fool I was. I was ashamed and didn’t want anyone to know, especially not Fanny. She deserves much better than a foolish old man.”

  “You’re not foolish. Diana’s damsel-in-distress act over the theft was good enough to convince Thomas she was innocent. Besides, love isn’t based on reasoning.” I smiled. “And Fanny loves you.”

  “I’m sure her feelings have recently changed. I’ll never forgive myself for the way I spoke to her and made her feel so unimportant when I can’t imagine a day in my life without her.”

  “She still cares a lot for you.”

  A hopeful smile curled his thin lips. “I’d lost my will to fight after Diana left. I gave up on everything, on life. I don’t want to see the estate go to that bloody solicitor’s firm or for Enid to profit one penny from the sale. I don’t wish to move down the road let alone to the Canary Islands. Another lie. Emily had suggested the Canary Islands would be good for my health, but I hadn’t seriously considered moving there. Once again, I panicked and feared I’d need to run away so nobody learned the truth.”

  George let out a heavy sigh. “Even if we held this mystery event, it might help immediate bills, but what about long term? An estate is in constant need of funds. It’s very taxing not only on my physical well-being but also my emotional.”

  I gave his hand another comforting squeeze before releasing it and standing. “I know someone with ideas for maintaining the estate.”

  He dropped back against the chair, looking relieved yet drained by his confession.

  “Would you like me to explain everything to the others?”

  He nodded. “If you wouldn’t mind. I fear I am not up to retelling such a sad tale.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  I flew from the room and into the kitchen where everyone sat around the table, drinking red wine rather than tea. Even Mom was drinking. One of George’s expensive bottles of wine sat empty on the table.

  I quickly recounted George’s confession.

  Tears trailed down Mom’s cheeks. Rachel let out a relieved sigh, then downed the rest of her wine.

  Declan gave me a hug and kissed me right in front of Mom. “I knew you’d be grand.”

  I smiled anxiously at my sister. “George would like to give the art-mystery event a go but has some concerns about financing the estate long term. Thought you might want to share your ideas.”

  Rachel shot up from the chair, looking determined and inspired. She marched out of the kitchen, leaving behind the workaholic, stressed-out Rachel and her bad kidney.

  Chapter Twenty

  One Week Later

  “Seriously, darling”—Zoe placed a long white-gloved hand on a gentleman’s arm—“you must come to London next week to see my film’s premiere. It’s simply the bee’s knees. All the critics are raving about it.”

  A dozen guests surrounded Zoe in the salon, snapping selfies with her as if she were a true celebrity. She pulled off the blue chiffon dress quite well, and her fake emerald necklace sparkled under the fully lit chandelier. She struck a pose as the professional photographer we’d hired snapped a shot.

  “Guinness, come here, my pet.”

  Rachel had changed Mac’s name to fit her role of a wealthy beer heiress. She gave Mac’s gold leash a slight tug as he attempted to take off up the stairs. He wasn’t happy about the leash or the faux diamond-studded collar. However, he had to remain on a leash in case he freaked out over the flying monkey table and scared the guests.

  “Champagne, luv?” Gerry Coffey snagged two flutes of sparkling cider off the tray of a passing waitress dressed in a black uniform, played by Nicole Duvall. “Thank you, madame.”

  “My pleasure, sir.” Nicole had the British accent down to a tee. Being an actress, she might have mastered it while still living in the States.

  Several actors were assisting today and would be taking over our roles for future events as we couldn’t all be there during the week, except for George and Fanny.

  “It matches your dress brilliantly,” Gerry said.

  “As your suit so nicely matches my family’s stout.”

  Gerry, her gentleman friend, was decked out in a vintage dark-brown suit with a cream-colored oxford and bow tie. He gave her a kiss, and their lips lingered. Thankfully, their lovey-dovey behavior wasn’t an act. Rachel wasn’t yet sure where their relationship was headed, but she wanted to find out.

  George looked dapper in his black tux and bow tie. He’d feared he’d have to have it altered after losing weight in the hospital, but Fanny’s scones with clotted cream had helped him put on a few pounds. Probably not the diet the doctor had recommended.

  George gestured to the blue wingback chair in the corner. “I do believe blue suits the home quite nicely.” He patted Fanny’s hand, her arm looped through his. “As do you, my dear.”

  Fanny’s porcelain cheeks flushed pink. She had on the blue dress and white fur stole she’d worn in her boudoir photo. The two were perfect for the role of an eccentric millionaire couple, the estate’s owners. I doubted it would be long before they weren’t acting and Fanny and her blue furnishings would be right at home.

  “I’m so glad I have my friends and family by my side today. It’s made opening the house much less difficult than I’d imagined and a bit of fun.”

  “We wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” Mom said.

  We raised our sparkling ciders and toasted to George living a long and prosperous life on the Daly Estate. The only person currently not present was Thomas, who was giving several newspaper and magazine reporters a guided tour of his topiary and garden. Rachel had sent the press free tickets to cover the event.

  George smiled at the painting of the woman seated at a desk and writing a letter, which Declan had returned for the occasion. “It was always my favorite. I missed it most of all. Feels good to have it back home where it belongs.”

  “It is quite lovely,” a woman said. “But would you be willing to part with it for say…five?”

  Everyone’s gazes darted to Declan.

  He nodded. “Sounds grand. I can have another one painted by the week’s end.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “And we’ll have five thousand cash for you then.” She and her husband strolled off, continuing to browse the artwork.

  Declan let out a low whistle, fanning himself with the red ascot tied loosely around the collar of his white oxford. “Jaysus. Would be taking me two weeks of traveling to make that much quid.”

  He wouldn’t even have to travel around Ireland now that he could pursue his passion and natural talent as a career.

  G
eorge patted Declan on the back. “Well, young man, I do believe you have a new lucrative career painting stolen artwork.”

  Declan smiled. “It may prove quite profitable for us both.”

  “I have plenty of empty rooms on the upper floor that would do quite nicely as an artist studio when you visit on the weekends, as I hope you two will.”

  Declan and I nodded. We planned on spending many weekends at the estate, visiting George and assisting Rachel. She’d already booked a corporate art-mystery event and an intimate wedding for an art dealer. With all of Rachel’s planning-industry connections worldwide, she’d have no difficulty booking special events at the estate.

  “Too bad the painting is going to get swiped again.” I brushed a nervous hand down the front of my jade-colored dress, mentally rehearsing my role as Detective Shaw of Scotland Yard. As soon as Fanny screamed out that the painting was missing…

  Declan clasped hold of my hand. “Stop fidgeting. You’ll be grand.” He placed a kiss to the top of my hand, and my shoulders relaxed.

  Fanny’s gaze narrowed on an elderly gentleman in a dark suit entering the front door with a woman in a long black dress. “What is he doing here?”

  “Who is it?” Rachel asked.

  “Martin Edwards, a partner at Edwards and Price,” George said. “Enid’s lawyer.”

  Rachel and I marched over to the man, everyone following.

  “Didn’t you hear,” I said. “The house is no longer on the market. And Enid has no claim to any of the furnishings.”

  The man looked baffled. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Did you really think George would sell you the place when you’re representing Enid?” Rachel asked.

  “I do apologize, but I haven’t a clue what you are referring to. Enid Daly? I can’t recall the last time we’ve spoken. She’s left several messages. I just returned from our holiday home in Scotland.”

  “Then why did she have a letter on your company stationary detailing her lawsuit against George?” I asked.

  He arched an intrigued brow. “That’s quite interesting indeed. I must be asking her the same thing.” He strolled off with his wife to admire the artwork.

  “That bitch was lying the entire time?” Rachel said. “Did she think we wouldn’t find out?”

  “She probably figured we’d make a deal while George was in the hospital and she’d flee the country before we figured it out,” Mom said.

  Right on cue, Enid marched through the front door in her typical riding attire. Why bother to dress appropriately for an event she hadn’t bought a ticket to attend anyway? She stalked across the salon toward us.

  “Here to pick up your assistant?” Rachel gestured to the flying monkey table.

  Enid glared at Rachel, then directed her attention to George. “I wouldn’t be here if you had the courtesy to return my phone calls. I am more than willing to settle this whole thing amicably and out of court if you would at least have the respect to discuss the matter.”

  “Advised your lawyer, have ya?” Declan said. “That you prefer to resolve the lawsuit out of court?”

  Our gazes darted over to the lawyer and his wife enjoying Zoe’s theatrics. Enid followed our gazes. Her eyes widened, and she went pale. She turned on her bootheels and made a swift getaway. Hopefully, to never be seen again.

  “Slag,” Fanny and I both said.

  “Well, that couldn’t have worked any better if we’d planned it,” Mom said.

  While a couple complimented George on his home and the event, Mom went into the library to do a head count.

  She returned. “We’re still missing two people. I’ll have the servers start inviting guests into the library for tea.”

  We all clinked champagne glasses. “Let the show begin.”

  Mom, Rachel, and Gerry headed into the library, while Declan, George, Fanny, and I hung back.

  Thomas, dressed in the brown tweed suit and green wellies, walked in the front door with the last two guests and the media. He gave us the thumbs-up and smiled proudly for Rachel’s photographer snapping their pic. He led them into the library to join the others.

  A man dressed in jeans and a casual tan jacket entered the front door. “Sorry. I don’t have a ticket. I saw the flyer in town for your event. I’m passing through on my way to Glasgow to visit my son at the university. My name’s Robert Daly. Thought it would be nice to get a snap of myself in front of the Daly Estate. You never know. There might be a family connection.”

  “Caity here would be able to help you determine if there is one,” George said. “I only know as far back as my grandfather who bought the estate in 1860.”

  I nodded. “Sure. I’d be happy to help.”

  The guy seemed more intrigued by the flying monkey table and the other eclectic décor than tracing his Daly family tree.

  Outside of the Coffey couple in Scotland, I’d solved all my genealogy mysteries. Nigel decided his ancestor’s true identity would remain our little secret. Now that I knew James McKinney’s father was Richard—not John—I’d found the children’s birth records in Glasgow. I’d started tracing the family forward and hoped to have found descendants before Bernice and Gracie’s upcoming Scotland trip. I’d located Gretchen’s grandfather’s birth record in Hungary rather than Germany. They’d moved to Munich when he was a boy. This discovery would enable her to obtain citizenship through her Hungarian grandfather, whereas Germany only allowed citizenship through parents. Hungary was part of the EU, allowing Gretchen to buy her mountain cottage in Bavaria. It had been my shining hour.

  Declan leaned in. “Not sure how interested this bloke is in his family tree, but how about a Daly clan gathering here? You’d get loads of clients.”

  I smiled. “Excellent idea.”

  Robert Daly peered up the stairs. “This is one of the most magnificent staircases. It would be perfect… Would you mind if I take a snap of it?”

  “By all means,” George said.

  He took a pic with his cell phone. “I can’t believe I’ve never been here. I thought I’d visited all the country homes in this area.”

  “It’s a private estate, just recently opened to the public,” George said.

  The man nodded, slipping a card from his wallet and handing it to George. “I’m the location scout for Sunnyvale Street.”

  Fanny gasped. “Oh my. How lovely to meet you.”

  That was the horrific soap opera I refused to admit I’d been sucked in to watching at the hospital.

  “Is that a nighttime show?” George’s overly innocent tone seemed rather suspicious. Was he a Sunnyvale Street closet watcher?

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen it,” Fanny said. “That is one of the most magnificent shows on television.”

  “Is it now?” George said.

  “I’m thinking this would make a great location for one of next season’s story lines. It would merely be a few episodes.”

  Omigod, what incredible exposure for the estate!

  “I can’t say who, but a certain couple will be getting married.”

  Fanny gasped. “They aren’t?”

  George and I shared a mental eye roll.

  Was that woman nuts marrying that cheating bastard? I wondered if it took five years to get a divorce in England like it did in Ireland, because that marriage was doomed.

  “I’ll go get my sister, Rachel. She organizes the estate’s special events.”

  “I’m late to meet my son. Please give her my card and ask her to get in touch next week.” He snapped a few more pics on his way out.

  Declan’s phone dinged, and he slipped it from his suit jacket pocket. He read the text and glanced over at me. “It’s from a Susan Flannery. I gave my number to the priest who found your granny’s baptismal certificate. Asked him to forward to any possible Flannery relations in his parish. This Susan says she’s a rellie and wants your e-mail address.”

  I smiled. “Wow, too bad all my genealogy research wasn’t that easy.” No matter wh
at happened with my Flannery family, I had to remember what Declan said: You take the good with the shite.

  Remembering a call had come through earlier, I slipped my phone from the small black beaded purse on my shoulder. I listened to a voicemail message from Emily Ryan calling from the Canary Islands, inquiring on George’s health. She hadn’t checked up on him because she’d also been ill for the past few weeks with a flu. She wanted to let me know that my application for Irish citizenship was being expedited, so no need for me to leave the country when my ninety-day visa expired.

  I took back every nasty thought I’d had about Emily being a neglectful aunt. But how had she known…

  I glanced over at George. “Seems Emily Ryan has a connection to someone with Irish immigration services and my citizenship is being expedited.” The one person I hadn’t asked for assistance.

  George smiled. “It’s good to have connections.”

  I returned his smile, grasping hold of his hand and giving it a squeeze. “It’s good to have family.”

  Declan brushed a kiss to my lips. “Yes, it is.”

  Who knew how large my family tree would end up by the time it stopped growing, if it ever did.

  Hopefully, it didn’t.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading Live to Fly Another Day. If you enjoyed Caity’s adventures, I would greatly appreciate you taking the time to leave a review. Reviews encourage potential readers to give my stories a try, and I would love to hear your thoughts. My monthly newsletter features Caity Shaw’s travel column, genealogy research advice, my latest news, and frequent giveaways! You can subscribe at www.elizawatson.com.

  Thanks a mil!

  About Eliza Watson

  When Eliza isn’t traveling for her job as an event planner, or tracing her ancestry roots through Ireland, she is at home in Wisconsin working on her next novel. She enjoys bouncing ideas off her husband, Mark, and her cats Frankie and Sammy.